


Loosening Knots Around the Heart

by goldenslumber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, In which Jaime doesn't mind wearing his chains very so much, Light Bondage, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenslumber/pseuds/goldenslumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kingslayer.” It's half a warning, half a threat, half a breathless hiss.</p>
<p>Jaime only hears the name and responds accordingly; "Wench?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loosening Knots Around the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt:
> 
> #62 – “Brienne convinces Jaime to don handcuffs/chains again. But for a more pleasurable purpose this time.”
> 
> Mostly just silly. I had a bit of fun with this one. Enjoy.

Jaime's got no idea who taught her to tie knots like this. It certainly wasn’t him, but whoever had taught her made sure she knew them well. And it’s not really the  _knots_  that interest him; it's the way Brienne's face heats up, pulsing pink, and her lips tighten in contempt as she hovers her body over the length of his, pushing him deeper into the wedge of space between two trees, murmuring half-meant little things about  _him being **her**  prisoner._ She doesn't even mean it in  _that way._ But Jaime is only a man, and can feel the shape of her breasts through both of their jerkins when the wench reaches over his head and attaches his chains to a high tree branch with rope, tied in perfectly unbreakable knots. She skates her fingers down his ribs when she drops her arms and he arches off the tree's trunk, just slightly. Her touch is  _wicked,_  in the most innocent of ways, and what makes it all the more amusing is that it is all unintentional.  
  
Brienne has no idea what she's just pulled out of Jaime. All he knows is that he is suddenly smirking, in the most sincere way, and he doesn’t ask her to untie him. For once. “Just going to leave me here, all by myself?” he asks her, voice low, eyes steady on her face.  
  
“No talking,” she says. Except there is no true sharpness in her voice; it is dismissive, soft. She is thinking, still, whether the idea is an agreeable one. Jaime only hears the words, not the intent, and they make him think of Cersei pushing him into a mattress and demanding silence.  
  
Except, this is most certainly  _better._  There aren't soft silks underneath his back, no perfume mane of blonde curls brushing his face, no confining castle walls that echo and loom and darken the world. No. He can taste the dirt, feel the crisp air of fall flush against his cheeks. Orange and yellow leaves cling desperately to the branches this autumn, brushing his knuckles, licking up the sides of his palms. Brienne's eyes are two shining marbles of the same scorched blue that is the wide open sky. Jaime can not think of any better scene, after his imprisonment, than this one, outside, hidden from sight, pressed uncomfortably – but _comfortably_  – close to this monster of a wench.   
  
“Perhaps you should stay and  _guard_  me.”  
  
That earns him a wary glance. “Quiet, Kingslayer.”  
  
“Jaime,” he said. Equal parts exasperated and earnest. He is tried of that name, and is tired of having to remind her. “Tell me. Do you think my dear cousin will find us here?”  
  
“I have no concern for your cousin.” Brienne slides two hands along the trunk and dares a look beyond. Loud, distinct voices rumble nearby and Jaime can only imagine what the wench is observing. “They are Star... no.” Her face hardens. A wave of unease goes over Jaime watching her uncomfortable hand shift to the sword hanging from her hip.  
  
“Give me a sword,” he says. “I can fight if you unbind me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Who are they? Not friends, I am betting by your eyes. I won't be your prisoner for long if you think to take on that many with one sword.” Truthfully, he thinks she has a minimal chance of taking down a few before she fell – he knew how well the wench was with that sword, having watched the whole three whores ordeal. Yet that isn't enough for him. He likes living, and his recent unimprisonment has only strengthened this feeling.  
  
“No talking.”  
  
“Wench,” he says, and Brienne looks sharpy over her shoulder. The words fumble. Instead of something harsh and snarky, or demanding for a blade, his words come out as, “Don't go.” And they continue; “They will overwhelm and kill you in a moment, then find me anyway. Assuming they're resting from a day of plundering or marching, they'll settle their armored asses here for a night, then move on at first light. There's a chance they won't happen over us if we stay still and silent.”  
  
Brienne thinks over this. “We leave in the coverage of night–”  
  
“Won't work. They'll have guards up. Ones that will hear the clanking of my chains from hundreds of lengths away.” A pause, wherein his lips curl. “Unless..”   
  
“No.”  
  
“You are a stubborn wench.”  
  
Sighing, Brienne turns around again and leans heavily into the tree behind her back. There's at least an arch of space between them, just enough for a knife's blade to slip 'tween their stomachs. As Brienne readjusts the fasten of her cloak, Jaime shifts against his own tree. There is a problem in his lower belly – spreading to the cock in his pants. A tight, half- _hard,_  sort of problem. Which is ridiculous.  
  
Though he's got half a mind to stare at her chest and try to discern the breasts he'd thought he'd felt earlier, instead, Jaime notices the piece of a dead leaf clinging to a few strands of hair next to the wench's temple. His hands itch to pick it out. “What are you staring at?” Brienne demands, whispering. Jaime turns aside his eyes – then turns them back, boldly, meeting her gaze. “What?” she asks again, when he does not speak.  
  
“You've got dirt on your face.” And sweat. And a bit of blood. And chapped lips. And astonishing eyes.  
  
“So do you.”  
  
Blood fails to reach his fingers from having to hold his arms so high overhead and he's starting not to notice the bite of the chains in his wrists. (Perhaps that is the reason of the arousal; the blood has no other place to go.) Experimentally, he clenches his knuckles, rewarding himself with a flare of pin-needles all the way to his elbows. Jaime's entire body withers in displeasure, trying in vain to take away the sharp, disagreeable tingling. “I can't stay like this,” he says.  
  
“If I untie you now, you'll only set the chains to clanking.”  
  
“If you leave me like this all night both my hands will likely fall off.” It's only half a joke. Brienne's lips press together, the way they do when she's deciding. Jaime leans heavily against his binds and closes near all the distance. He swears he can smell pine off her skin. “I won't run.”  
  
“I know you won't. If you run, they cut you down...” But her jaw clenches. “Or I cut them down. I won't allow my prisoner to be taken. I promised Lady Catelyn I'd get you to King's Landing safe.”  
  
“As you've said as much before,” Jaime allows. “So you'll untie me then? And the chains..”  
  
“No.” Brienne breathes deep, as though the very idea stresses her, and her warm breath feathers his cheeks on the exhale. Both her hands rise and lock around his own – her skin burning to the touch, because he can no longer feel his hands but for icy prickles. Her fingers fumble to the knot of the ropes and once more, she reaches higher, on her toes, inadvertently pressing her body over the length of Jaime's.  
  
The buck of his hips is unintentional, he'd swear in the courts and to the gods. An integrated instinct in his body to seek out some sort of friction for the low, dull pulsing radiating from between his legs. And Brienne stiffens through her entire body and her shoulders throw back, as if in affront, her chin jerking downward, eyes meeting his. “ _Kingslayer._ ” It's half a warning, half a threat, half a breathless hiss.  
  
Jaime only hears the name and responds accordingly; “Wench?” He inches his foot over a tree root, slips the appendage effortlessly behind one of hers; he imagines sweeping it out from under her, causing her to fall blindly forward into his chest.  Before he gets the chance Brienne rips herself entirely away, untangling their ankles, until she is pressed as far away from him as possible.

The look in her eyes is unforgiving. “I won't play your games. Whatever you think you're doing... this won't work.. I am no fool.. to fall for your tricks..”  
  
“I believe they're called charms. My  _charms_.”  
  
“Whatever they are keep them to yourself.”  
  
Jaime laughs, quiet, deep in his throat. “You speak as though I have lice.”  
  
Brienne merely folds her arms together and turns her eyes from him. Sunset paints the sky into a deep pink, dragging the day mercilessly with it, and Jaime thinks of the night to come. How impossibly long it will be with his hands over his head like they are. He rearranges his features to be apologetic. “I promise you, no tricks or charms or cooties. Just untie me so I may sit on the ground. I will not talk the entire night through.”  
  
She does not believe him. “You swear it?”  
  
A smile, roguish and amused. “I swear it, wench. On my shit-worth honor. I shall behave.”  
  
“Brienne. My name is Brienne.” That was more of a mumbled reminder as she stepped forward once more, straining over his head to reach the ropes and knots and branch. Slowly, she works through the first one – the knots were not tied to come undone easily, and each takes a considerate amount of time.  
  
Time that Jaime spends with his eyes hooded and his entire body subdued. There are definitely breasts on this wench, despite the deceiving appearance of her clothing. He wonders if he can ask her to deny her sex and then unlace her breaches to prove it – but this time she  _does_. A strand of hair tickles the side of his neck. Jaime breathes and breathes and she smells like the riverbeds and of sweat, of wet chain mail, of boiled leather, oily and earthy. The scent makes his stomach flip, for no other reason than that it is his memories of camp, of late nights with his soldiers and men, all balled into one  _woman._  
  
As soon as his hands are free, Jaime grasps hers tight around the wrists and shoves. “Jaime –!”  
  
“So now you remember my name,” he says, with a grin that cuts. His fingers niggle their way into hers, tight, interlocked, painful, but good, too.  
  
He's starting to  _feel_  again. (His hands, of course.)  
  
He's starting to like that all too funny twist of Brienne's lips when she's horrified and offended and laughably,  _infuriatingly_ , honorable.


End file.
